


Baby’s Nightmare

by Michgator



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Season9/Early Season 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29105484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michgator/pseuds/Michgator
Summary: Sam and Cas weren’t the only ones worried about Dean being a demon. It was no joyride for Baby.
Kudos: 3





	Baby’s Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are appreciated!

Did you know cars can have nightmares?  
I didn’t.  
Not until it happened to me.

It starts when Sam carries Dean’s bleeding, lifeless body out of a warehouse and lays him gently in my backseat. For most people, that would be enough to cause nightmares, but I’m a Winchester. Hell, we’ve all died and come back, some more than others, so I knew that wasn’t the end. Bloody bodies don’t phase me much.

So, as you may imagine, I wasn’t really surprised when later that night, Dean walked into the garage and jumped in my driver’s seat. What DID surprise me was who settled into the passenger seat next to him.

Crowley.

It wasn’t the first time that puffed up limey bastard has stunk up my interior.  
I don’t like it. I don’t like HIM.

Dean, however, seemed pretty comfortable with the King of Hell in Sammy’s seat, so I didn’t think much about it.

The first sign that there was something wrong, something very, very wrong, was when my sweet boy drove me out the secret tunnel. No matter how much of a hurry he was in, he was always slow and careful maneuvering me out of the tight fit. This time he just hit the gas, only slowing down when he scraped the wall with my left rear panel. Normally, he would apologize for even coming close to damaging me. This time? Nothing.

I wasn’t the only one to notice.

“Take it easy there, Dean. Don’t want to paint the walls with her.” Crowley mocked.

Dean just shrugged. “It’s just a car.”

Just a car? Just a car?! What the Hell, and I meant that literally considering who was riding shotgun, what the Hell was going on?

“So” Crowley asked with a quirk of his eyebrow, “where are we off to?”

Dean ignored him until he hit the highway, heading north and west. “You said we were going to howl at the moon. So let’s howl.”

Crowley chuckled, “Sounds like a plan. Sounds like a plan Moose would never go for.”

Faster than I could see, Dean whipped out the ugliest weapon I’ve ever seen, one I recognized, The First Blade, and had it at the demon’s throat. “Don’t ever mention Sam again! You understand me?” he snarled.

Crowley raised his hands placatingly and with a nervous laugh and a calculating look in his eyes, answered, “Don’t even know the gent. Won’t breathe his name.”

And that’s when I noticed Dean's eyes. They were black. Black as the deepest pits of hell. No mercy, no compassion could be seen in those depths. Gone were the bright green orbs that could pierce someone’s soul like ice when angry or soften with unspoken emotion when his walls were lowered. I knew what black eyes meant.

This was bad. Very bad.

At first, I assumed he had been possessed. That some twisted piece of hellspawn had decided to take up squatter’s rights in my boy’s body. But Crowley kept calling him Dean and I reluctantly had to accept it was really him somewhere inside that cold, uncaring person behind my wheel. The realization was like a dagger to my heart.

As I continued listening to their conversation the cause of this catastrophe became clear. The brand on Dean’s arm.

Son of a bitch.

The tension in my interior was so thick I could almost see it in the air. It was there in the stranglehold Dean had on my wheel and in the way Crowley kept glancing warily at the hunk of bone laying between them, nestled against Dean’s thigh. I tried to pay attention to the questions Dean barked at the King of Hell and the answers Crowley gave in a patently false, calm voice.

Cain and Abel.  
The Mark.

It wasn’t until I heard them discussing that Dean Winchester was now a Knight of Hell that the ongoing shocks turned into numbing fear. It felt like repeated hammer blows to my chassis. Like the time Dean had beaten in my trunk lid with a crowbar in an effort to relieve his pain at the death of John. Only this time the pain was all mine. The newly demonized Winchester didn’t seem to feel anything at all. His eyes were no longer ebony pits, but they were just as empty. They were that familiar green again, but flat and hollow. I couldn’t bear to look at them. I had thought it would break me when they reflected the despair of memories of Hell, the anguish of losing Sam or the hopelessness of yet another apocalypse looming before him, but this was so much worse.

There was finally a long silence as the road continued to spin out beneath my tires. I felt nothing, too overwhelmed to pay much attention to where we were going.

After what seemed like hours, Crowley spoke again.

“How long are we gonna keep driving, mate?”

“As long as it takes!” Dean snapped.

“Takes to what?” Crowley asked curiously.

“To put enough distance between me and…” Dean paused before going on, “Between me and the bunker.” He finished decisively.

Crowley nervously ran a hand down to straighten his already straight tie as a flash of understanding flickered across his face. But he said nothing.

Sam.

Dean meant enough distance between him and Sam.

In the flood of information and fear I’d been drowning in, I’d forgotten about Sam! 

Apparently he was still alive, thank god, but did he know everything that was happening? I had no doubt that the youngest Winchester would do everything in his power and beyond to save his brother. I only hoped it would be enough, and soon. Still, it was a lifeline in my ocean of pain. A very thin lifeline, but one I knew was strong and sure, and I grabbed on to it with all my might.

With a snarl of irritation, Dean slammed in a cassette and cranked up the volume, whether to silence the King of Hell or the voices in his own head I couldn’t tell. Maybe both.

Never had AC/DC felt so wrong and so prophetic as Highway to Hell blasted out of my speakers. I saw a satisfied smirk twist Crowley’s lips. Dean, however, had no reaction. His head didn’t bob to the beat, his fingers didn’t drum out the rhythm on my steering wheel. He just stared straight ahead, empty eyes on an empty road.

The sun had risen and was heading back down and we had crossed two state lines before Dean slowed and pulled into some decrepit looking roadhouse in the middle of nowhere. We came to a halt and he turned off my engine. He just sat for a moment, not making a move. Crowley eyed him with a hesitant look that seemed vaguely familiar and waited. Dean opened his door at last and without looking at his passenger, said “Are you coming or what?” in a listless voice.

It wasn’t until Crowley responded with a tight smile as his eyes lit with pleasure that I recognized the look I’d seen before. It was loneliness and fear of rejection! I’d seen it countless times before when my boys had hit a rough spot in their relationship. Each of them, at one time or another, had feared their brother would abandon them. Had feared that things had gone so wrong between them that the years of love, brotherhood and having each other’s backs would finally not be enough to hold the only family they had left together. That one of them would walk out on the other for good. Several times it seemed like that had happened, but they always found their way back to each other.

Was that what this was really all about? The mighty King of Hell was lonesome and looking for a buddy? None of his shallow little demon minions were good enough playmates? How dare he think he could commandeer Dean! How dare he think that all the history, the sacrificing, all the love and care between the brothers could suddenly be his? How dare he think he could replace Sam? I would have laughed if the idea wasn’t so pathetic.

In the next few weeks, as we went from town to town and dive to dive, I watched as Dean seemed to relax into his new role as a Knight of Hell. He stood taller, moved easier and didn’t seem to have a care in the world. He slipped unrepentantly into a warped, perverted friendship with Crowley that made me sick. God knows I had longed for my boys to be free of the weight of the world. To be happy and carefree. But this wasn’t carefree, it was not caring any more, about anything. And that was very different.

I didn’t feel like laughing any more.

As the days passed I noticed more changes in Dean’s behavior, both large and small. For example, he started eating less and drinking more, and on the increasingly rare occasion he did eat, there was no joy in it. No closing his eyes to savor it and no inappropriate moans of delight. It was like he was just going through the motions. And, most telling, there was no more pie.

Then there were the things that made my skin crawl. Bringing some girl out to my backseat was nothing new, but gone was the tender, considerate lover he had been before. He just seemed to take what he wanted with no concern for his partner.

And there was his laugh. Yes, he still laughed, but there was no lightness to it, none of the depth that made his eyes crinkle and infected everyone around him and brought smiles to their faces. It was an ugly, mean laugh that gave a cruel twist to his lips and sent a nervous chill down the backs of anyone who heard it.

But the most horrific new habit he had picked up was taking The First Blade, which never left his side now, and just slicing his hand with it. Then, as the blood began to well, his eyes would flick to black and the slash would mend, the blood disappear. He seemed to treat it like his own personal parlor trick, but there was no amusement in it for him. He never smiled or even frowned. Didn’t show any pain or relief. He just stared dispassionately at it in a way that made my oil run cold.

I’ll be honest with you, in those last weeks there were many times when I considered just giving up. My spark plugs were misfiring, my timing was off, I could just stop trying. Every discarded whiskey bottle and casually tossed wrapper was like a blow to my body leaving me bruised and broken. Every layer of dust and dirt that went unnoticed and unlamented smothered my spirit a tiny bit more until my once burning flame of love and loyalty was little more than a guttering ember starved for oxygen. 

I was no longer his home, his Baby. I no longer was a place of comfort or a source of pride. I was just a thing, a thoughtless habit, and when I stopped being convenient or useful...well, somehow I knew if I refused to start, Dean would just leave me. The knowledge hurt more than any crash I had been in.

But I never did it! I never gave up! I just couldn’t. Dean had never given up on me all those times I was so busted up it was hard to recognize the badass beauty I had been. When I was so mangled and crushed that most people would have left me for scrap, Dean never did. He stayed with me. He worked on me with loving expertise and devotion until I was shiny, whole and purring like a tiger. So I wouldn’t give up on him.

And there was one thing keeping me afloat. One thing I could cling to during those dark days. One thing that kept me fighting on when I didn’t think I had anything left.

Sam.

Every few days, Dean’s phone would ring and Sam’s name would be on the caller ID.

Dean never answered it. He would stare at it until the ringing stopped and then mutter to himself, “I told you to let me go, Sammy. But you just have to be a stubborn bitch,”

True, he didn’t say it with his former exasperated affection. It was more like cruel disdain. He never listened to the voicemails, but he would hold the phone for a few minutes and then toss it on the seat beside him. On Sammy’s seat.

I’m not sure why this gave me so much hope or kept me going, but it did.

Maybe because Dean never threw the phone away.

For all his seeming disgust for his brother’s continued need to cling to him, for all his disinterest in what anyone else, including Crowley, thought of him or what he did, no matter how cutoff from his past he attempted to be, he kept that phone.

And Sam kept calling. If he wasn’t giving up then neither was I! How could I? I’m a Winchester.

Just one day at a time, that’s all I had to do. Take it one day at a time and pray that Sam could find some way, some miracle, to fix us all.

The first clue I had that Sam was getting close was when we left The Black Spur, a rundown dive in North Dakota that Dean had been camping out at with his sleazy new demonic BFF.

It was the middle of the night when Dean jumped behind the wheel like he was running from something. A few hours into the drive his phone rang and Sam’s name popped up on his cell. To my amazement, he answered it! He sounded like he was expecting the call.

“I left you an open tab at the bar.” Dean quipped without even a hello. “Knock yourself out.”

The relief that swept through me at knowing Sam was finally zeroing in on us was short lived as the conversation continued. It soon became clear that it wasn’t the youngest Winchester on the other end.

When Dean asked, “Is he dead?” with no worry, only curiosity in his voice, my anxiety kicked in. I held my breath until I heard the tinny reply, “Not yet.” I could breathe again.

The rest of their back and forth just confused me. I was getting mixed signals from Dean. On the one hand, he promised certain death to the person threatening his brother and yet, in the next moment he was abandoning Sam to his fate. As I struggled with this yo-yoing of his reactions, he was once more swinging in the other direction.

“Cause he knows me. And he knows for damn sure that if I am one thing, I am a man of my word.”

How could that sound both reassuring and dire at the same time?

And then Dean just hung up and calmly kept driving.

Meanwhile, I was freaking out. Sam was close! Sam was in danger! Dean was going to kill this asshole! Dean was leaving his brother!

I was on a roller coaster of emotions and the ride seemed like it would never end.

All I could do was believe in Sam. Believe he would find a way out on his own and track his big brother down.

It was outside a strip club in Killdeer, North Dakota (I tried not to read anything into the name) that Crowley caught up to us again. Truth to tell, I was glad to see him for once since he managed to distract Dean from beating the shit out of a group of mouthy teenagers. Apparently Dean was no longer welcome in that bar, so we hightailed it to another. As he and his demon pal strolled inside, I just waited to see what would happen now. I concentrated on the hope that Sam would follow the trail of violence his brother was leaving behind him and show up before anything more horrible occurred.

Then Lester happened. So much for my hopes.

It seems this little disaster caused a … rift .. between Dean and Crowley. Things were getting more and more out of control and my boy seemed to be slipping farther away. If Sam didn’t show up soon, I was afraid we’d never get Dean back.

Another day, another bar. I was sinking into a depressive funk when suddenly my prayers were answered. Sam was here! He had a busted arm and looked like he hadn’t slept in days, but to me he was a shining knight in denim and plaid armor. As he entered the bar to confront his brother-turned-demon, I closed my eyes and held my breath. Please, God, let this work!

Moments later my eyes snapped open at the sound of shattering glass. Some Gomer Pyle wannabe had thrown a tear gas grenade through the window! Shit. What now?!

I had no idea what was going on inside, but then I heard the sounds of fighting coming from the back lot of the bar. Fighting and two voices. One I didn’t recognize, but the cruel, biting timbre of the other was very familiar. Dean. His tone calm and mocking as he taunted his adversary. The poor schmuck had no idea who he was dealing with.

I was about resigned that this nightmare would never end when I suddenly heard Sam shout, “STOP! IT’S OVER! It’s over.”

I sagged with relief when I saw Sam come around the corner with a pissed off and handcuffed Dean. He hustled him into my backseat and secured him to my door handle. I knew the ordeal wasn’t over. Dean was still a demon. But I believed in Sam. He must have a plan.

We took a quick stop to meet Crowley. Apparently, I had him to thank for reuniting my boys. Huh. Who’d a thunk it. He also relieved us of The First Blade, thank God! If I never saw that evil piece of crap again it would be too soon. And judging by the look Dean was giving the King of Hell, he better hope he never saw that Winchester again.

Needless to say, the drive back home was a tad awkward. What conversation there was went from bad to worse. I barely flinched when Dean called me “just a car” again, but when Sam stated that his brother “took mercy” on the guy who attacked him, things got ugly.

“You call that mercy?” Dean sneered. “Imagine you spend your whole life hunting down the guy who knifed your father. When you finally find him, he whips you like a dog.”

Sam glanced at his brother in the rear view mirror with a look of trepidation at what would be said next.

“How do you think that feels?” Dean chuckled coldly. “That kid’s gonna spend his whole life knowing that he had his shot and that he couldn’t beat me.”

I could tell that every word was like a knife twisting in Sam’s gut.

“That ain’t mercy.”

Twist.

“That’s the worst thing I could have done to him.”

Twist.

“And what I’m gonna do to you, Sammy…”

Twist.

“Well, that ain’t gonna be mercy either.”

TWIST.

I thought I was going to be sick, until I saw the look of horror in Sam’s eyes switch to hardened determination. This wasn’t over by a long shot.

The rest of the trip home was made in silence. The only communication was Dean’s arrogant, threatening glares at his brother’s back and Sam’s glances of firm purpose in return. I knew he was hurting, but this wasn’t the time to let his walls down.

We couldn’t get back to the bunker fast enough for me. When we finally pulled into the garage and Sam took his brother inside, I knew there was nothing more I could do. It was all up to Sammy now and I fervently wished him good luck. 

I waited through the day and into the night to see what would happen. There were a few anxious moments when the bunker flashed with red lights, signaling it was on lockdown, but I had no idea what it meant and it was soon over.

The waiting was killing me.

It was much, much later when a very subdued Dean walked into the garage. I watched him warily as he slowly circled me, trailing his hand lightly through the dust and grime covering my body. He was a bit hesitant as he carefully opened my driver’s side door and settled diffidently into my seat. He just sat for a moment, then picked up a crumpled burger wrapper from my dash and proceeded to smooth it out on his leg, looking at the garbage strewn around my interior with obvious loathing.

In a quiet, broken voice, he said, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” And as the tears spilled from his eyes and he lay down on my seat, that’s when I saw it. The weight was back.

The weight of a motherless four-year-old boy who had to care for his infant brother and broken father. The weight of a child with knowledge and responsibilities no adult should have to bear. The weight of a teenager who had already seen more death and horror than he thought possible. The weight of a young man trying to hold his damaged family together, but watching it fall apart.The weight of the desperation of trying to make a hard, distant father proud, to accept his role as a warrior in a war that had no end. The weight of seeing his beloved brother suffer the loss of the woman he loved and the chance at a normal life that he craved end in the most horrendous way possible. The weight of watching that brother struggle with powers he didn’t understand. The weight of his father’s last words charging him to save his brother or kill him. The weight of Sam dying and the pain so unbearable it drove him to make the ultimate sacrifice to bring him back. The weight of remembering not only the tortures of Hell, but the torture he had inflected on other souls. The weight of fighting a “destiny” written for him and his brother by Angels and Demons. The weight of the brother he loved more than life betraying him. The weight of watching that same brother concur the Devil and fling himself into a pit of eternal torment in an act of redemption. The weight of betraying that same brother to save his life again. The weight of constantly fighting both Heaven and Hell. The weight of knowing his best friend, the angel who raised him from perdition, was in cahoots with the King of Hell and keeping secrets from him. The weight of a year fighting for his life in Purgatory, only to return and discover Sam hadn’t even bothered to look for him. The weight of all the friends, family, the people who had died because of him. Because he wasn’t good enough. The weight of all he kept giving of himself to save a world constantly teetering on the brink of extinction over and over again. A world that didn’t even know who he was, that offered no thanks, no forgiveness, but only demanded he give more.

All the weight of the pain, the heartache, the failures was there in his slumped shoulders, his lined face and his bowed head. As I watched it all come crashing down on him once again in wave after wave, he layed down on my seat, curled into a ball of misery and wept like his world was ending.

And finally, FINALLY, I understood why Dean wanted to stay a demon. Why he ran away and fought so hard to not be cured.

It wasn’t so much that he enjoyed the freedom in being evil, it was that he was tired of the burden of being human.

So tired of the world breaking him apart and his humanity demanding that he pick up the pieces of himself, put them back together, get up and keep fighting. So tired of putting his faith in people only to have it abused and used against him. So tired of fearing a future that would leave him broken and all alone with nothing worth living for.

As I watched him with this new revelation pounding through my head, he curled tighter into himself, his hands grasping into fists with nothing to hold on to. He gasped for air between his almost silent wails like a man drowning in his own tears.

And there was nothing I could do to help him.

Yes, cars can have nightmares.


End file.
